And those are just the things I know about. There are a host of others they don’t mention because they don’t want to upset me. I’ve caught wind of several, but when I ask questions they clam right up. Mustn’t upset Grandpa, you know.
Why? That’s what I want to know. I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don’t know what’s going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation?
I’ve decided it’s not about me at all. It’s a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home. When Simon turned sixteen and got belligerent, I thought it was just him. By the time Dinah got there, I knew it wasn’t her fault—it was programmed into her.
But despite bowdlerizing content, my family has been entirely faithful about visiting. Someone comes every single Sunday, come hell or high water. They talk and they talk and they talk, about how fine/foul/fair the weather is, and what they did on vacation, and what they ate for lunch, and then at five on the nose they look gratefully at the clock and leave.
Sometimes they try to get me to go to the bingo game down the hall on their way out, like the batch from two weeks ago. Wouldn’t you like to join in? they said. We could take you there on our way out. Doesn’t it sound like fun?
Sure, I said. Maybe if you’re a rutabaga. And they laughed, which pleased me even though I wasn’t joking. At my age, you take credit for whatever you can. At least it proved they were listening.
My platitudes don’t hold their interest and I can hardly blame them for that. My real stories are all out of date. So what if I can speak firsthand about the Spanish flu, the advent of the automobile, world wars, cold wars, guerrilla wars, and Sputnik—that’s all ancient history now. But what else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s really the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.
But I shouldn’t complain, this being circus day and all.
ROSEMARY RETURNS WITH a breakfast tray, and when she pulls off the brown plastic lid I see that she’s put cream and brown sugar on my porridge.
“Now don’t you go telling Dr. Rashid about the cream,” she says.
“Why not? I’m not supposed to have cream?”
“Not you specifically. It’s part of the specialized diet. Some of our residents can’t digest rich things the way they used to.”
“What about butter?” I’m outraged. My mind skips back over the last weeks, months, and years, trying to remember the last appearance of cream or butter in my life. Dang it, she’s right. Why didn’t I notice? Or maybe I did, and that’s why I dislike the food so much. Well, it’s no wonder. I suppose we’re on reduced salt as well.
“It’s supposed to keep you healthier for longer,” she says, shaking her head. “But why you folks shouldn’t enjoy a bit of butter in your golden years, I don’t know.” She looks up sharply. “You still have your gallbladder, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Her face softens again. “Well, in that case you enjoy that cream, Mr. Jankowski. Do you want your TV on while you eat?”
“No. There’s nothing but garbage on these days, anyway,” I say.
“I couldn’t agree more,” she says, refolding the blanket at the foot of my bed. “You give me a buzz if you need anything else.”
After she leaves, I resolve to be nicer. I’ll have to think of a way of reminding myself. I suppose I could wrap a bit of napkin around my finger since I don’t have any string. People were always doing that in movies when I was younger. Wrapping strings around their fingers to remember things, that is.
I reach for the napkin, and as I do I catch sight of my hands. They are knobby and crooked, thin-skinned, and—like my ruined face—covered with liver spots.
My face. I push the porridge aside and open my vanity mirror. I should know better by now, but somehow I still expect to see myself. Instead, I find an Appalachian apple doll, withered and spotty, with dewlaps and bags and long floppy ears. A few strands of white hair spring absurdly from its spotted skull.
I try to brush the hairs flat with my hand and freeze at the sight of my old hand on my old head. I lean close and open my eyes very wide, trying to see beyond the sagging flesh.
It’s no good. Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes, I can’t find myself anymore. When did I stop being me?
I’m too sickened to eat. I put the brown lid back on the porridge and then, with considerable difficulty, locate the pad that controls my bed. I press the button that flattens its head, leaving the table hovering over me like a vulture. Oh wait, there’s a control here that lowers the bed, too. Good. Now I can roll onto my side without hitting the damned table and spilling the porridge. Don’t want to do that again—they may call it a display of temper and summon Dr. Rashid.
Once my bed is flat and as low as it will go, I roll onto my side and stare out the venetian blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I’m lulled into a sort of peace.
The sky, the sky—same as it always was.
COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA
I’m daydreaming, staring out the open door at the sky when the brakes start their piercing shriek and everything lurches forward. I brace myself against the rough floor and then, after I regain my balance, run my hands through my hair and tie my shoes. We must have finally reached Joliet.
The rough-hewn door beside me squeaks open and Kinko comes out. He leans against the frame of the main door with Queenie at his feet, staring intently at the passing landscape. He hasn’t looked at me since yesterday’s incident, and to be frank, I find it difficult to look at him, vacillating as I do from feeling the deepest empathy for his mortification to being barely able not to laugh. When the train finally chugs to a stop and sighs, Kinko and Queenie disembark with the usual clap-clap and flying leap.
The scene outside is eerily quiet. Although the Flying Squadron pulled in a good half hour ahead of us, its men stand around silently. There is no ordered chaos. There is no clatter of runs or chutes, no cursing, no flying coils of rope, no hitching of teams. There are simply hundreds of disheveled men staring in bafflement at the pitched tents of another circus.
It’s like a ghost town. There is a big top, but no crowd. A cookhouse, but no flag. Wagons and dressing tents fill the back end, but the people who are left mill about aimlessly or sit idly in the shade.
I jump down from the stock car just as a black and beige Plymouth roadster pulls into the parking lot. Two men in suits climb out, carrying briefcases and scanning the scene from under homburgs.
Uncle Al strides toward them, sans entourage, wearing his top hat and swinging his silver-tipped cane. He shakes hands with both men, his face jovial, cordial. As he talks, he turns to gesture broadly across the lot. The businessmen nod, crossing their arms in front of them, figuring, considering.
I hear gravel crunching behind me, and then August appears at my shoulder. “That’s our Al,” he says. “He can smell a city official a mile off. You watch—he’ll have the mayor eating out of his hand by noon.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Come on.”
“Where to?” I ask.
“Into town, for breakfast,” he says. “Doubt there’s any food here. Probably won’t be until tomorrow.”
“Jesus—really?”
“Well, we’ll try, but we hardly gave the advance man time to get here, did we?”